


Catch and Release

by shomaun_ho



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, room sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 15:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15318351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shomaun_ho/pseuds/shomaun_ho
Summary: "Shoma has a terribly long list of ways in which he is...maybe not the best roommate in the world. He snores, for one, and he leaves water all over the bathroom after showering, heaps his clothes into piles, barely organised, one for definitely dirty and one forpossiblyclean, and he is messy, bordering on disgusting if left unchecked. He stays up too late and sleeps in too long, listens to the same five songs on loop, eats too much junk and drinks too much caffeine.It’s an awfully extensive inventory, but being aperverthad never been of particular concern.And yet."





	Catch and Release

**Author's Note:**

> *nervous sweating* hi there, welcome to my self indulgent hellhole, I sincerely hope you enjoy your stay!

Shoma likes ice shows. It’s fun, to gather together as friends rather than competitors, to put on a show for the sake of showmanship, to entertain rather than impress. They provide a safe space to iron out the creases in new programmes and to test new ideas, see what works and what falls flat. A cool down for one season and a warm up for the next.

Shoma has become accustomed to the routine, over the years; it’s a comfort, a certainty in amongst the unpredictability the off-season can bring, with events and PR and new training schedules, different rinks in different cities, in countries all over the world. Shoma never seems to know what comes next, in the months without competition, where he will be or whom he will be with. The presence of familiar faces at show tours is welcome, the repetition soothing.

Keiji getting injured had never been a part of the equation, before. Keiji withdrawing from shows was not a part of the plan.

Sharing a hotel room with Yuzuru for the next three weeks puts a spanner in the works, and Shoma isn’t entirely sure how he feels about it.

The thing is, Shoma had grown very used to rooming with Keiji. It was a given, throughout tours, that they would be lumped together, and it had been such a constant for so many years that Shoma had never questioned what would happen if that were to change. If they put him with someone new.

Rooming with Keiji was easy; they had known each other for long enough that Shoma was comfortable - sometimes a little too much so, perhaps - and their routine was simple, well-versed. Shoma made a mess, Keiji cleaned it up, Shoma stayed up too late playing games on his phone and Keiji enabled him at every turn. They each complained loudly and openly about the others bad habits, but change was never sought, never necessary.

But rooming with Yuzuru….Shoma was decidedly more uncertain.

They were amicable. Friendly, even. Shoma enjoyed Yuzuru’s company, and he thought - hoped - that Yuzuru felt the same. They talked and laughed often, Yuzuru poked fun, and Shoma never felt wholly or overwhelmingly embarrassed by it, which was something of merit, as Shoma spent most of his time in most people's company feeling wholly and overwhelmingly embarrassed about _something_.

But civility, no matter how fond it may be, did not definitively translate to compatibility on all fronts. Friendliness extended only so far. Yuzuru was a very different person to Keiji, related in a very different way to Shoma. Keiji was safe, familiar, while Yuzuru was something of an enigma. A little distant. A little untouchable.  Shoma had grown through the ranks as a skater with Keiji by his side every step of the way, a close friend and something of a guardian, particularly in their younger years, while Yuzuru…

Yuzuru had always been there, and they had connected, now and then, points in time in which their paths crossed briefly and strayed away. He was always friendly, a good _senpai_ , but not a friend in the way Keiji had been, or Sota, or even, to an extent, Mao, and Kanako.

Shoma has complained at length about this, mostly to Keiji, and Itsuki, his parents and Mihoko, but there is...another small problem, one that Shoma hasn’t been quite so vocal about.

Being around Yuzuru can be….difficult, sometimes. Not for any fault of Yuzuru's, unless Shoma counts his face, his body, his easy smile and stupid laugh and pretty, shining eyes as _faults_ —for in that case, it is every fault of Yuzuru's that makes things so hard.  
  
But Shoma is more inclined to lay the blame a little closer to home; it isn't the way Yuzuru looks that is the problem, nor the way he acts, the way he is, it is the way Shoma feels about it all, that is cause for trouble. It's distracting, in a guilty kind of way, to find Yuzuru's every quality so thoroughly endearing in one respect or another, like Shoma is keeping a dirty little secret, tucked into his pocket, and it feels so terribly hidden. The edges poke out, threaten to spill—it's in the way he blushes whenever Yuzuru looks at him for too long, the pound of his heart when Yuzuru laughs, and low swoop in his stomach when he catches glimpses of too much skin. He's so transparent; given enough time in such close quarters, Yuzuru is _bound_ to notice.  
  
Shoma will do something _stupid_ , give himself away. And then—what? It doesn’t bear thinking about. He resigns himself to trying his best to keep himself in check. It’s only a couple of _weeks_ , surely, it can’t be that difficult.

* * *

Yuzuru is already in the room when Shoma arrives, tumbling through the doorway with his luggage in toe. He has always found that flying is draining, even within a single time zone, and it leaves him feeling boneless, de-energized. It takes great effort to heave his suitcase into the room, and even greater effort not to abandon it the moment the door closes, and flop onto a bed to rest. It isn’t overly late, time ticking over enough that the sky is just beginning to grow dark. Too early for sleep, but sleep is all Shoma wants.

Yuzuru is pottering about happily, earphones in, humming to himself as he flits from place to place, laying out items—phone, laptop, notebook, toiletries, spare earphones, more spare earphones, water bottle—in the homes he has chosen for them for the duration of their stay. Both beds remain untouched, but Yuzuru’s pajamas lay claim to one of them, folded neatly on top of the pillow. Already, Shoma feels overwhelmingly out of place.

Yuzuru grins widely when he spots Shoma, standing awkwardly by the door.

“Shoma!” He says, too loud, before pausing his music and tugging the buds from his ears. Shoma winces, chews at his lip.

“Hello,” he says, after an awkwardly long moment. Yuzuru seems thoroughly unfazed by Shoma’s mounting discomfort, sitting placidly on the edge of his bed, and laying his music player down beside him.

“How was the flight?”

Shoma shrugs. It was fine, nerve-inducing as always. Three hours of sleep Shoma is desperate to cash back.

“Good. When did you get here?”

“Not long before you,” Yuzuru says. He offers a kinder, gentler smile, and props his weight back on his hands. He looks effortlessly relaxed, sat as he is, long legs stretched out and crossed at the the ankles, head tipped slightly to one side. There is no tension in his face, not like Shoma can feel in his own; a tick in his cheek when he tries to force a smile in return, stiffness about his eyes that betrays his unease.

Shoma has nothing to say. It’s _stupid_ , talking to Yuzuru shouldn’t be _hard_. They talk often, at competitions, about mundane things—games they’ve played, food they want, nit-picking their practice sessions or competition programmes, joking over upping their technical ante beyond the realms of physics—anything and everything, and it’s always enjoyable enough. He hasn’t felt so thoroughly lost for words around Yuzuru since he stepped onto the senior field.

Something about the situation, about sharing a living space for the foreseeable future, makes Shoma stall. At competitions, there is an escape; if he is overwhelmed by Yuzuru, by the heat in his face and the butterflies in his stomach, he can leave. He has an out. In the hotel room, though, Shoma has no such freedom. He is trapped here, stuck between Yuzuru and his own big fat stupid _crush_ , with nowhere to turn.

There is a disconnect somewhere in his head, an empty space where conversation pieces should be. Shoma reaches, grabs at something to say, something to discuss, but he comes up blank, thoughtless and empty.

The silence stretches for what feels like forever, Yuzuru sitting, head cocked to look at him, and Shoma standing, awkward and unmoving by the door. Heat floods him, burning his cheeks, and Shoma knows what he must look like; wide-eyed and dumb, skin bruised ruddy in his embarrassment.

Yuzuru tilts his head the other way.

“Are you okay?” He asks, sounding somewhat concerned, but mostly amused. Shoma nods his head. “You’re quiet. More than usual, I mean.”

“Mhm,” Shoma hums. His jaw aches around a yawn he tries to smother. “Tired.”

It’s not a lie, but it isn’t strictly the _truth_ , either. He is tired, but he is also wound tight, nervous, stressed about the coming weeks. It isn’t that Shoma doesn’t _like_ spending time with people, because he does, and everyone who comes to the shows is fun, friendly and likeable. Shoma enjoys the company, looks forward to it, even.

It’s just, it’s draining. Shoma needs time to rest and recuperate, to build up some stamina to train with a group day in and day out. Keiji might not understand, wholly, how Shoma feels, but he always obliges him, gives him space. Yuzuru may not be so accommodating. He likes to push, nudge Shoma out of his comfort zone, get him talking to overseas skaters or waving at fans or joining in the little competitions at the end of galas and shows. Shoma isn’t sure whether Yuzuru will find the line between pushing fairly and pushing too much.

It’s a worry that Shoma doesn’t know how to broach, or whether he should at all. Yuzuru might be receptive and understanding, or it might add fuel to the fire and encourage him more.

He stifles another yawn, less successfully this time, and glances sheepishly at Yuzuru, who laughs a little fondly and stands again, popping his back as he does.

“Sleep, if you’re tired,” he says. Shoma chokes, stutters, scrambles to find something to say, but Yuzuru waves him off casually, and dips back into his suitcase, taking out neatly folded clothes and stacking them into piles. “It’s fine. I’m just gonna unpack, and then I’ll sleep too.”

Shoma blinks, and his lids feel heavy. It’s always like this; a vague sense of sleepiness, an awareness that energy reserves are falling low, and then a drop, steep and sudden, exhaustion gripping him wholly. He rubs at his eyes, and pulls his suitcase further into the room.

“I should, too,” he says. Yuzuru casts him a questioning glance, and Shoma’s cheeks burn hot. “Unpack, I mean.”

Everything is coming out clumsy and uncoordinated. Shoma half wishes he could leave the room and come back again, take a breath and start over. Dig up some energy from somewhere to do this interaction better, smoother. Even in the face of Shoma’s abject awkwardness, though, Yuzuru seems unperturbed. He shifts a pile of fabric—workout clothes, Shoma knows; his trademark under armour—and slots it onto a shelf, organised and ready to grab in the morning.

Shoma unzips his own case, and looks helplessly at the contents.

Nothing is organised. His clothes are folded, at least, but clumsily so, and they haven’t been stacked nicely to fit. Instead they have been jammed, packed too loose to begin with, and later crammed into places where space remained. He fishes out a shirt and sweats to sleep in, refolds them to smooth out the wrinkles, and lays them on the bed, then turns back to the mess.

Behind him, Yuzuru chuckles. Something like nausea curls in Shoma’s stomach.

He is used to Yuzur’s ribbing. It’s not unusual for Yuzuru to poke fun, tease him for his sleepiness or absent-mindedness, joke about the phases he pulls or the moves he makes when he skates, but these are things that everybody knows about him. These are things Shoma is comfortable with everybody seeing. There is something different about having his more private habits on display, open to scrutiny, that makes him squirm.

Yuzuru has an image of him—small, cute, sleepy, clumsy, but also talented, hardworking, achieving—that Shoma would like to uphold. Yuzuru is friendly with the Shoma he knows, and it’s a frightening prospect, that the parts of him Yuzuru hasn’t seen before might change that.

“I was under the impression you’d live out of your case for the next few weeks,” Yuzuru says, a gentle teasing in his tone. Shoma looks over at him, opens his mouth, closes it, then purses his lips.

“Keiji needs to keep his mouth shut.”

Yuzuru barks a laugh.

“He had some...things, he thought he should warn me,” Yuzuru says. Shoma turns a little huffily back to his suitcase, and fishes out his toiletry bag. The news that Keiji has spoken to Yuzuru about him, his bad habits, is disconcerting, but he supposes it is somewhat of a relief. At least Yuzuru won’t have any unpleasant surprises

“Maybe you could warn him he’d better run,” Shoma says. “ _Fast_.”

“Now that’s a little unfair,” Yuzuru says. He gives Shoma a toothy grin, nose scrunching cutely, eyes creased into crescents. “He’s supposed to be _resting_. Give him a head start at least.”

Shoma fights the urge to stick out his tongue. For the smallest of moments, he feels comfortable, like things might not be so bad. And then he swallows, and says, awkward and uncertain, “he probably made me sound worse than I really am.”

Yuzuru waves him off again.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” he says. Shoma must look unconvinced, because Yuzuru adds, with an earnest kind of glance, “you’re _fine_.”

Shoma nods, gathers his pajamas and toiletries, and turns for the bathroom, but just as he opens the door, Yuzuru calls his name. He pauses, turns, catches the sly grin curling over one of Yuzuru’s cheeks.

“Just know I won’t take it lying down, if you fart on _my_ pillows.”

Mortified, Shoma slams the bathroom door behind him.

* * *

Although he is bone tired, there is an edge of restlessness that Shoma can’t quite place. Some pent up reserve, pressure with nowhere to go. Shoma feels it even as he drags himself out of the bathroom, teeth brushed and changed into his sleepwear. It niggles at him as he drops his clothes at the foot of the bed, kicked in close enough that he hopes Yuzuru won’t find it too much of an eyesore.

It simmers just under the surface, an itch Shoma can’t even find to scratch.

Yuzuru clambers up off his bed, and Shoma starts. Fatigue always leaves him feeling a little absent and a little unaware, so much that the slightest shift can be startling. He blinks rapidly, and takes a steadying breath. Yuzuru gives him an odd kind of look, somewhere between concerned and confused, but it passes over his face quickly enough, and he turns away, gathering up a towel from one of the shelves.

He inclines his head towards the bathroom.

“Will I keep you awake if I shower?”  
  
Shoma shakes his head. Exhaustion is settling deep and heavy, his limbs leaden as he pulls back the bedclothes and slides beneath the covers. His head hits the pillow as Yuzuru disappears into the bathroom, and as the door clicks closed behind him, Shoma's eyes fall shut, and finally, he allows himself to drift.  
  
He doesn't drift overly far at all. Shoma isn't sure he can even count it as sleeping, not really; he is lurking somewhere on the edge of it, hanging in a liminal space with no direction, no definitive forwards or back. It's a teasing kind of rest, stunted and fleeting.  
  
He blinks himself awake after what feels like hours, trapped in a restless limbo. His eyes are bleary, taking in the room; everything looks...foggy, misted, and vague. Shoma blinks rapidly to clear his eyes of sleep, and when he does, he realises that the fog over the room isn't a product of his tiredness, but _steam_. The bathroom door is cracked open, and clouds of it pour through, billowing out into the bedroom.  
  
And behind it comes Yuzuru, hazy at first, but rapidly drawing into focus, and—  
  
—Shoma's breath catches in his throat.  
  
Yuzuru looks almost _ethereal_ , backlit by the overheads in the bathroom, casting a halo-like glow around him. The light shimmers off of his still-damp skin, and through the dispersing steam and the fuzzy grip of sleep, it looks as though the gleam is drawn to him; as though every point of light in the room is being sucked in, absorbed into his very being.  
  
Shoma blinks sleepily at him.  
  
Yuzuru hasn't noticed him. His eyes are downcast, half-lidded as he towels his arms dry, long lashes casting shadows over his cheeks and the skin there is rosy, pink from the heat of the shower. Shoma's gaze travels over his face, from his soft, plump lips to his jaw, down the long line of his neck, and over his shoulders—they're so much _broader_ than Shoma had imagined, they always look so narrow, so lithe in his delicate costumes. And from there, he eyes the thin dip of Yuzuru’s waist, the bony jut of hips, his legs (endlessly long, Shoma traces them right the way to the floor and back up again, and the journey takes a lifetime), and then Yuzuru turns, displaying the pale expanse of his back.  
  
Shoma can see the muscles jumping at his shoulders while Yuzuru scrubs at his hair. The skin looks so _soft_ , smooth, shimmering where droplets of water sit against it. Absently, Shoma wonders what it would feel like to touch—like silk, he thinks, delicate, but strong beneath his fingertips. Yuzuru draws the towel over the back of his neck, dislodging more water from his hair, and Shoma's gaze follows the path of one stray droplet, right down the dip of Yuzuru's spine, down, down, until—

The realisation comes suddenly, as though waking from a particularly jarring dream: Yuzuru is _naked_ , and Shoma is staring, blatant and open.

Nakedness isn’t a particular problem. Shoma has grown accustomed to it, sharing baths with his parents as a child, with Itsuki as they grew, and later even with strangers, and the nature of his sport means time spent unabashedly bare, in locker rooms if time allowed, or else backstage, behind the scenes, scrambling to undress and redress against the clock.

But seeing Yuzuru so bare feels different, _is_ different. Time, place, context, they all change the meaning, the intimacy, and this—this is a kind of nakedness Shoma shouldn’t see. The hotel room should provide a semblance of _privacy_. During show tours, solitude can be hard to come by, between practices and shows and outings, shared breakfasts and lunches and dinners, hours upon hours of time spent in the company of tens of other people. Their hotel rooms are their homes, for the weeks they are away, and what seclusion they give should be kept at least a little sacred.

Watching Yuzuru like this even fleetingly, naked and so innocently unassuming, feels distinctly like crossing some unseen and unspoken boundary.

And Shoma hadn’t just been _watching_. He’d been admiring.

Shoma clamps his eyes abruptly shut.

He lies still, stiff, barely even taking a breath. He is acutely aware of every move Yuzuru makes, shuffling quietly as he gets ready for bed. Shoma listens to the swish of fabric while he dresses, the soft, metallic tic of the wrack as Yuzuru hangs his towel, the muffled pad of feet on the carpet, and finally, the pull of the bedclothes, and the gentle hiss as Yuzuru slides his body between the sheets, and settles down to sleep.

For a long while, Shoma remains awake, hyper aware of every little sound Yuzuru makes. Every shift, every rustle, every little breath and sigh sets Shoma on edge, snapping his spine straight, tensing his muscles, and only when Yuzuru settles, when his breathing evens out, long and slow, does Shoma allow himself to relax.

This is fine. Shoma takes a steadying breath, and lets his body relax into the mattress; this is _fine_. Looking was wrong, yes, but it’s not like he could _help_ it, not with Yuzuru wandering around like that, completely nude, and completely shameless. What's done is done, and—and Yuzuru never has to _know_. Shoma isn't obliged to tell him—to wake in the morning and announce what he saw, or even worse, what he _thought_.

It...it wasn't anything _bad_. Not really. An appreciation, mostly innocent—nothing more than admiring a figure in a magazine, or a model in a shop window.

Except, models in shop windows don't linger behind Shoma's eyes as he tries to sleep. The figures in the magazines don't revisit him, again and again, looping in his head—but Yuzuru is. Yuzuru is a constant presence, as the night creeps on. Sometimes, the image is pure, an exact replica of the scene Shoma had witnessed.

Other times, though, there are differences, subtle changes: his body slanted differently, posed at a more revealing angle; or else a change in his gaze, eyes raised, dark and gleaming and aimed right at Shoma. Sometimes, he touches himself differently, more purposefully, hands sweeping up his arms, over his chest, fingers spread against his thighs.

And sometimes, sometimes he moves. He turns his head, cocks his chin in question—once, he smiles, and though Shoma is lying down, his knees feel weak.

Over and over, the scene replays itself, and over and over, Shoma jolts awake, out of one rendition, only to fall right back into another. He rolls over and over between dreams, sticking his limbs at odd angles, trying to find a position that feels comfortable, restful. Sleep, dream, wake, rearrange, repeat.

The next time Shoma wakes, something feels different. It takes a moment to pinpoint exactly what it is, some wading through the haze of sleep to find a little clarity, and even when it comes, it is indistinct; a vague tightness, low in his stomach, a heaviness, and a restlessness that itches at his thighs, tenses his hips.

 _Ah_.

Shoma stretches, rubs his cheek against the pillow. The fabric feels impossibly soft, inviting, and Shoma closes his eyes, content to tumble into another dream—but the shift tugs at the fabric of his sweats, pulling them tight over his crotch, and Shoma hisses, rolling absently onto his side to relieve the pressure.

It seems second nature, instinct even, to deal with the problem.

Shoma rocks onto his stomach, turning his cheek deeper into his pillow. The mattress feels firm beneath his hips, a solid pressure to relieve a little of the building ache, and he finds himself pressing down against it, harder, more purposeful. He grips lazily at the sheet and crooks a knee to brace himself—it’s easier, like this, to maneuver the way he wants to. Easier to shift, find an angle that feels good, a spot that works best.

He curls one arm all the way up beneath his pillow, grabbing at it loosely, and grinds slow and drawn into the mattress and _oh_. Shoma’s mouth drops open, and his eyes flutter closed.

A warmth builds within him, low in his stomach, growing hotter with every languid shift, and the breath in his lungs comes a little too fast and a little too heavy. Everything feels _stuffy_ , and stifled, pinned beneath the duvet and tangled in his shirt, an uncomfortable tightness to his sweats. Shoma moves clumsily, limbs heavy with sleep, and shoves the hem of his shirt up, over his chest and off of his head. He tugs at the waistband of his sweats, and heaves a loud sigh when they slide down past his hips, freeing his length. The sheet feels soft beneath him, cool against the heated skin.

He props himself on an elbow, head bowed. The light is dim, but enough that Shoma can see himself under the bedclothes; the flushed, weeping head of his cock, the length of him wedged against the mattress. He lets out a soft, breathy moan, and gives a long, deliberate roll of his hips.

Yuzuru makes a sharp noise, a snore caught and aborted, and the reality of what Shoma is doing comes abruptly into focus.

This is _stupid_. It's dirty, and crude, and not the kind of thing friends should do, while their friend sleeps feet away in the same room. Face brutally hot, Shoma flops onto his side, tucking his knees to his chest and bunching the covers below his chin.

 _Sleep_ , he thinks. Begs. But rest doesn't come—his mind all but shuts down, wandering and barely functional, but his body feels keyed up, itching and restless.

Toss. Turn. He punches his pillow to fluff it, rolls over again.

Shoma has a terribly long list of ways in which he is...maybe not the best roommate in the world. He snores, for one, and he leaves water all over the bathroom after showering, heaps his clothes into piles, barely organised, one for definitely dirty and one for _possibly_ clean, and he is messy, bordering on disgusting if left unchecked. He stays up too late and sleeps in too long, listens to the same five songs on loop, eats too much junk and drinks too much caffeine.

It’s an awfully extensive inventory, but being a _pervert_ had never been of particular concern.

And yet.

Shoma huffs out a breath and rolls himself over. This is how most of the night, thus far, has been spent; tossing from left to right, tucking deep into the bedclothes, kicking them away again, sticking out an arm, a leg, both legs, rinse, repeat. Nothing helps him settle. Nothing is comfortable.

The room is warm. The sound from the city seems distant, barely a hum beyond the windows, and the dim street lights cast only the barest glow about the room, thin slits cracking the darkness. Sleep swarms him, thick and hazy, heavy on his eyes and bleary in his mind, and the weight of it alone should be enough to coax him under, and let him rest. But.

In the quiet, Shoma hears the soft creak of a mattress. Yuzuru, turning in his sleep. Shoma sighs, and rolls over once more.

Sleep teases him. Time drags, minutes stretching like hours, and all the while Shoma teeters somewhere on the brink of rest, but try as he might, he cannot fall asleep.

He is _trying_ to sleep, but his tiredness leaves him absent, mind adrift, body awake, and seemingly doing as it pleases. Twice, Shoma catches himself choking on a gasp, stroking himself, or rolling his hips against the gathered bedding.

Shoma’s sex drive has never been a problem, before. It's there, healthy and active and waiting, simmering, but rarely does it boil over so thoroughly, and never so uncontrollably. His mind wanders absently to Yuzuru, the lean expanse of his back, narrow waist, the curve of his ass and the hard, pale flesh of his thighs—Shoma releases himself with a jolt, and throws himself back onto his stomach.

With a sigh, Shoma resigns himself to the fact that sleep—despite his exhaustion—will not come, not until he does...something, anything, to take the edge off, put the fire out.  
  
It might be politest to go to the bathroom, seek a little privacy. Keep his actions out of Yuzuru's immediate space—but moving, getting up and crossing the room, opening the door, turning on the light, risks waking Yuzuru from his sleep, and the thought alone is too mortifying to comprehend. Besides, Shoma is tired. Walking sounds taxing.  
  
Better to be quick, to be quiet, and to stay exactly where he is.  
  
Cautiously, Shoma hisses into the quiet, "Yuzuru?"  
  
No response. He tries again, louder this time, but Yuzuru sleeps on. Peaceful. Blissfully unaware. The thought makes Shoma feel shameful.  
  
He presses his cheek to the pillow and takes a long, slow breath in. The thrum of his heart is quick and heavy, and so loud, in the quiet. Shoma thinks that if Yuzuru were awake, he'd be able to hear it—it might even be loud enough to draw him out of sleep.  
  
Slowly, he shifts, spreading his legs and raising himself up a little on his knees. Just enough to create a little space, room for his hand to reach beneath himself, for his shaking fingers to wrap around his shaft. Deep breath out. The pillowcase catches on his lips; the scratch of fabric on dry, cracked skin sounds thunderous.  
  
The bottom of his back aches—it's an effort, holding himself like this, and already he is beginning to sweat. But the angle is good, chest pressed to the bed, knees apart, hips lifted. It gives him room to manoeuvre, to push forward into the loose grip of his fist.  
  
Shoma knows how he would look, if Yuzuru were to wake; obscene, ass raised and legs spread, cheeks, neck, chest flushed dark, mouth hung loose around the ghost of a moan. Poised, as though on display. Waiting. Ready.  
  
And _oh_ , what would he think?  
  
Guilt squirms heavy in his gut. He shouldn't be doing this, not here, and he definitely shouldn't be thinking about Yuzuru, but—  
  
Shoma draws his flattened palm gently over the head of his cock. A shudder rolls through him, tenses the muscles in his stomach and thighs, punching a gasp from his lungs.

But thinking about Yuzuru sends a pleasant heat through him. Despite the guilt, his length twitches in his hand. It’s...okay, he reasons, to just _think_. It’s _normal_ , even. To think about people. And it wouldn’t be the first time his mind has strayed to Yuzuru in moments like this. It’s just...different, to do it here, with Yuzuru in the room.  
  
Heat builds rapidly beneath the sheets. Shoma paws them off clumsily, shoving until they bunch just over the swell of his ass. The air feels refreshingly cool against his sweat-flushed skin—perhaps, if Yuzuru were awake, he’d touch the places Shoma’s skin bruises pink, drag his lips over the blotchy red skin of Shoma's neck. Shoma knows the pattern of his blush well; it spreads from his jaw, down his neck, lights his collar and the top of his chest, and lower down, it colours his legs, pretty and patchy on the insides of his thighs.  
  
Yuzuru would follow it, lips and tongue; nudge Shoma from his knees to his back and trail kisses where the blood flow leads.  
  
Shoma tightens his grip, rubs a thumb over his head. The little well of pleasure building low in his gut sparks fire, energy that has his muscles jumping, coaxes a moan out of his throat. Yuzuru would touch him like that, maybe, soft and slow and precise, finding the places to touch to tease out the most from him. Meticulous, like always.

Yuzuru would kiss the rosy skin, nip and suck until the blood pools in welts under the surface. Shoma traces his fingers against the inside of his thigh; he’s so sensitive, there, muscles quivering at the lightest dance of his fingertips. He can only imagine how it would feel, to have Yuzuru mouthing at him, but _god_ , he can imagine it _well._

And from there, Yuzuru would pick his way back up. He’d suck deep, open kisses to Shoma’s hips, drag his teeth over the little peek of bone, lave his tongue over the grooves of muscle low on his abdomen.

And maybe—maybe Yuzuru would mouth at his length, too. Light, at first, barely a tease. A kitten lick, a puff of breath. Shoma clenches his eyes closed and gasps wetly, gripping himself tighter, pumping his length harder. Yuzuru would kiss him here, mouth an O, lips plump and pouted against him. Eyes turned up, watching through his lashes. He’d lick a stripe up him, from base to tip, and his gaze would never leave Shoma’s—not even as he takes the head in his mouth, and hollows his cheeks around it.

“Fuck,” Shoma gasps, whispered and strained. He coughs out something like a whine, the steady flick of his wrist growing jerky, sporadic. He hisses, catches the pillow between his teeth. There are noises coming out of him, he knows it, hitching little moans and mewls, but every move of his hand over his shaft drives him higher, fuels the heat growing within him. He pictures Yuzuru’s hand instead of his own, longer, leaner fingers, a steadier grip, a constant, building rhythm, and Yuzuru’s mouth close to his ear, _‘that’s it, Shoma—so close_.’

And _oh_ , he is—the edge is right there, and he is teetering over it, stomach clenched painfully tight, legs shuddering, teeth clamped against the pillow—so close, so _close_. Yuzuru might kiss him, then, swallow his moans and abide the eager roll of his hips, stroke him harder, faster, pull him closer to release.

It’s almost enough—Shoma keens, presses his chest deep into the mattress and curves his back until his spine _screams_ , pants heavy through his nose. He feels coiled tight, wound up, ready to snap. Floating impossibly high, oh-so close to falling, just a little more and—

“Shoma?”

Shoma tumbles back down to earth with a shattering jolt. The fantasy evaporates; the Yuzuru in his head vanished, the only hand on his body his own. The real Yuzuru’s voice sounds thready, a little lost in the dark and the quiet, but unmistakably present. Awake.

Yuzuru is awake, and Shoma is—he is face down, pillowcase caught between his teeth, knees braced and cock leaking onto the mattress, and the bedsheets—

The sheets are gathered at his ass, barely covering him, revealing enough for Yuzuru to see that is he definitely naked, and oh _lord_ , enough for Yuzuru to see exactly why.

He scrambles to pull the blanket up, over him, all the way to his head, and he burrows himself into the pillows, humiliation burning like acid in his chest.

“Shoma?” Yuzuru says again. Shoma can’t bring himself to look. He doesn’t need to, not when he can picture so clearly the look of confusion, cloudy, wide-eyed and shaking off sleep. Not when he can picture so clearly that bewilderment giving way to clarity, and to disgust—because it _is_ disgusting, to do what he did, with Yuzuru asleep in the same room.

Shoma curls into the bedding.

He had been worried, so worried, that rooming with Yuzuru would impede on his privacy. That Yuzuru’s presence would be a burden, a hindrance. And he had been more worried still, that _he_ would be a problem, that he would be too obvious, red-cheeked and stuttering under Yuzuru’s attentions. His concern had be so fully realised, in none of the ways Shoma had expected; his anxiousness had surrounded his mess, his sleepiness, his bad eating habits, his need for peace and time to recuperate. His fear had imagined a tripping tongue and a heart thudding out of his chest, fumbling and fidgeting, starry eyes, every pathetic crush hallmark in the book, spread bare for Yuzuru to see.

He had never given any thought to _this_. It wasn’t something he’d thought he’d have to be concerned about—had never been a problem before.

But it is very much a problem now.

Across the room, Yuzuru coughs. It’s fake, high in his throat. It makes Shoma flinch, and cringe deeper into the blankets.

“Ah,” Yuzuru says, pauses, clears his throat again. And then, “Were you—”

Shoma cuts him off with a short, involuntary yelp. He doesn’t need to hear it. Doesn’t need Yuzuru to say it.

Shoma ducks his face further under the bedclothes, shame warming his cheeks. He hopes, silent and pleading, that the low city lighting coming through the blinds isn’t bright enough to expose him in too much detail; Yuzuru doesn't need to see the flush of his skin, his blown eyes or his bitten lips, to know exactly what Shoma had done, what he is _doing_.

“I…” Yuzuru begins,  croaky with sleep, or else shock, embarrassment. He clears his throat, tries again. “It’s fine.”

It is not fine. Shoma isn't sure if he’s ever been in a less fine situation in all of his life.

“Everybody does it,” Yuzuru continues, with a tight, high edge to his voice. Shoma hums, pulling the sheet up over his nose, until only his eyes peek out. It might be nice, he thinks, if the bed would just swallow him whole, open up and snap him away. This is not a conversation he’d ever envisioned having - not with _anyone_ , let alone Yuzuru.

“I do it.” Yuzuru shuffles against his mattress. Shoma gives another despairing moan, shaking his head against the pillow.

“Stop.”

“I’ve done it in hotels—”

“— _Yuzuru_ —”

“Nobu is a very heavy sleeper—”

“— _stop_.” His tone is firm, enough that Yuzuru clamps his jaw shut, teeth clacking in the quiet. Shoma curls impossibly deeper into himself, and when he speaks again, his voice comes pitifully small. “Please, just stop.”

The air in the room stagnates with the silence. Shoma feels sick; guilt rips at him, churning his stomach and squeezing his chest. This never would have happened if he were rooming with Keiji, he thinks bitterly. If Keiji hadn’t gotten injured, hadn’t pulled out of the tour, they’d be sharing a room, and Shoma would be sleeping peacefully on, and neither he nor Yuzuru would have discovered so rudely that he was so undeniably _gross_.

“Shoma…”  
  
Shoma doesn’t look. Instead, he rolls over, turning his back to Yuzuru’s bed and squeezing his eyes closed. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he’ll fall asleep, and if he wills with everything he has, he might never wake up, and never have to deal with the reality of the situation.  
  
Maybe Yuzuru will leave things alone, and they can pretend this never happened. Maybe in the morning, Yuzuru will request a room change; perhaps he could share with Javier, or Misha, someone he is close to and friendly with and trusts to control their libido. And then Shoma can have a room to himself, in which he can hide away, drown himself in the stupidity of what he has done.  
  
But Shoma should have known better. He should have known that Yuzuru isn't the type to let things lie.  
  
With a creaking groan, Yuzuru moves. The bed springs squeak, and the carpet ruffles under foot as he walks—to the bathroom, Shoma hopes, to splash his face and check he's awake, check that what he just witnessed was real, that it wasn't some horrible nightmare. But no; Shoma can feel Yuzuru at his back, even before the mattress dips, and Yuzuru's weight tugs at the blankets.  
  
"I mean it," Yuzuru says quietly. His tone is coaxing, placating, the kind of voice one might use on a frightened animal. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about."  
  
Shoma scoffs. He feels decidedly like a child, under Yuzuru's consolation. It is most definitely something to be embarrassed about, and it is maybe the most embarrassed he's ever been, which feels justified, because it's definitely the most embarrassing situation he's ever been in. Shoma has done many, many things, in the past, actions that make him squirm to remember, from silly falls to memory lapses, costume malfunctions and miscommunications, but this—this is worse than anything he could even imagine.  
  
Shoma draws his knees tighter to his chest. Above him, Yuzuru lets out a strangled sound.  
  
" _Shoma_."  
  
It's almost pleading, and the inflection catches Shoma off-guard. He lowers the edge of the blanket and peers out of it, finding Yuzuru's eyes in the dark.

  
He doesn't look disgusted. He doesn't look angry, or upset, or even particularly confused, which is about the range of emotion Shoma had expected to see. There is embarrassment, definitely, colour high in his cheeks, but for the most part he looks concerned, eyes flitting over what little of Shoma's face is exposed.  
  
He relaxes visibly, when Shoma meets his gaze. Shoma's eye contact wavers; it's difficult to maintain it, knowing what Yuzuru saw, but Yuzuru's eyes remain steadily on him. His mouth lifts into a soft smile.  
  
"I was excited, when I found it we'd be sharing a room," Yuzuru says. Shoma feels his heart sink, and something must show on his face, because Yuzuru's eyes go wide, and he waves a hand between them, adding, "I _am_ excited. I'm still excited.  
  
"I want the next few weeks to be fun. I usually share with Nobu, which is good, you know? He's fun, and I don't get to see him all that often, so it's nice, but he doesn't play games with me, and he makes me go to bed early, and he makes me get up early, and—do you know how many times a day he calls Mayu? It's so much, Shoma."  
  
Shoma cracks a small smile, at that, and Yuzuru relaxes some more. He cards a hand back through his hair, smoothing out a little of the mess.  
  
"I'm excited for something different. We don't get out hang out much—I mean, we see each other at competitions, but—things are always busy, and there isn't always time to catch up. I just..."

Yuzuru pauses, and looks around, searching for the right words. Shoma knows how conversations with Yuzuru usually go; circular, never-ending loops of chatter, a constant back and forth until he finds the point he's trying to make. Now, though, he is being careful. Finding the end goal, before he says anything more.

"I don't want you to feel...awkward."

Shoma almost laughs at that. Because it immediately _does_ make him feel awkward, reminds him just why Yuzuru deems this conversation necessary. He chokes, and tugs at the covers, but Yuzuru reaches out and pins them down, keeps Shoma's face exposed.

"I mean it," he says again, solid, and earnest. "It's not a big deal. It's _fine_."

It feels like a very, incredibly big deal. Shoma doesn't understand at all, how Yuzuru could be so calm, how he is even sitting where he is, on Shoma's bed, where Shoma was—

He shudders, and pulls weakly at the blankets. Yuzuru's grip doesn't give.

"It's—really not," Shoma says. Yuzuru gives him an exasperated kind of look, and reaches over, flicking him between the eyes. The impact doesn't hurt, but it is sudden enough to make him flinch, and Shoma stops tugging at the bedclothes, staring wide-eyed at Yuzuru.

"Have I ever lied to you?"

Slowly, Shoma shakes his head. No, Yuzuru has never lied to him (he is, in fact, brutally honest, sometimes to a fault), but Yuzuru has also never had _reason_ to. As far as reasons go, Shoma thinks this is...probably a good one. He might lie, too, if he were confronted with a similar situation, to save awkwardness.

But Yuzuru doesn’t have the same qualms. Shoma can’t expect the same thing.

Yuzuru nudges at his hip, and when Shoma dares to look at him—really look at him—he can see a smile, lopsided and a little sly, carving over his cheek.

“You know,” Yuzuru says, tucking one leg under himself, settling comfortably on the mattress. “It could have been worse.”

“I thought we were going for _not_ awkward.”

“We are! And we’re gonna get there by levelling the field.”

For a moment, Shoma’s thoughts go so very abruptly south—Yuzuru couldn’t possibly be suggesting...not so blatantly...but then Yuzuru’s grin widens, eyes gleaming, the very tips of his ears turning pink, and he says, “you could have been caught by your mother.”

Shoma’s mouth falls open.

“ _No_. Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Yuzuru says, a light, lilting laugh bubbling out of him. He at least has the decency to look a little embarrassed, though clearly, enough time has passed for Yuzuru to find the funny in the situation. Shoma cringes into the sheets, rolling to lie on his stomach, hiding his face in his pillow.

“How did you—you see her almost every _day_ ,” Shoma says, curling his arms under the pillow, and turning to rest his cheek on it, eyes cast up towards Yuzuru. “How do you look her in the eye knowing she saw you—doing _that_.”

“I don’t know if this makes it better or worse,” Yuzuru says, “but she doesn’t know she saw me.”

“What—”

“I was under the _covers_ ,” Yuzuru says, looking for the first time a little put out, that Shoma would assume he’d do something so private out in the open, like some _heathen_. Like....well, like Shoma. “She just...she did that _mum_ thing, where she knocked, and then she just walked on in anyway? I didn’t have time to do anything, or say anything, all I could do was lie there and wait for her to _leave_.”

Shoma allows himself a chuckle. Yuzuru is looking steadily more and more horrified, as though digging up the memory is opening some old, ridiculous wound, and Shoma has to admit—it is making him feel a little better.

Laughing with Yuzuru feels therapeutic. Sleep settles warmly over him, Yuzuru lulling him with soft, bitten off giggles, talking quietly; the darkness and the late hour calls for whispered conversation.

Shoma listens half-heartedly. Yuzuru is very, very good at talking, and he seems content enough with Shoma’s sporadic nods and hums to keep the conversation rolling all on his own. Shoma watches him through his fringe, blinking rapidly to keep himself awake.

Often times, Yuzuru looks so otherworldly to Shoma; alien and unreachable. He is poised and graceful, always so appropriately in-check, well-dressed and well-held and handsome in a smart, put-together kind of way. Shoma likes him, like that, but it makes him feel _small_ , acutely aware of his own shortcomings—he so often is messy and sleepy, looking lost and sometimes feeling it, a fond kind of joke.

Now, though—Yuzuru’s hair is sticking up at odd angles, flyaway strands pointing up to the ceiling, or else sticking out at right angles to the side of his head. His cheeks are flushed with a pretty, rosy hue, darkened by the orange street lights, and with every wide smile and every little laugh, his eyes crinkle into tiny black crescents, wrinkling at the corners. He looks...cute. In a way that makes Shoma feel warm to his very core; comfortable, and content to keep staring, taking in the view for as long as Yuzuru will allow.

“—I mean, what was I _supposed_ to do? Ask her to leave? She was collecting laundry, I didn’t think she’d sit down for a _chat_ —what?”

Shoma blinks again. Yuzuru is looking down at him, head tipped to one side, questioning. Shoma feels a jolt in his stomach, mind jarring back to his dreams—Yuzuru, naked after his shower, eyes dark and head tilted, just like that.

Cheeks warm, Shoma turns his gaze away, shaking his head.

“Nothing,” he says. Yuzuru paws clumsily at his own cheek.

“You were staring—do I have something on my face?”

“No.”

He palms at his head instead, flattening the wild strands against his scalp.

“Is it my hair? Does it look stupid?”

“I mean, now that you mention it…”

Something flashes across Yuzuru’s face, then, too fast for Shoma to register, to analyse, and then Yuzuru scoffs, faux-affronted, grabbing mockingly at his chest, and flops himself bodily across Shoma’s back.

It’s such an innocent thing. Casual contact, a part of the joke, and in any other circumstance, it would have been _fine_. But right now, Shoma is still half hard, and Yuzuru’s weight on his back presses him deeper into the sheets, so suddenly that Shoma doesn’t even have the time to stifle his groan. It comes out _loud_ , guttural, and it freezes the both of them in place.

Silence.

Shoma barely lets himself breathe. On top of him, Yuzuru lies incredibly still—he doesn’t even move to get up, which Shoma would have thought he’d have wanted to do immediately. But no. He stays perfectly still, and quiet, and Shoma lets the embarrassment eat at him, and then—

“Do you still—”

Shoma shakes his head vigorously, face pressed fully into the pillow now. He shifts himself, wiggles in an attempt to dislodge Yuzuru from his back. He withdraws, but he does so slowly, and rather than getting up off the bed, he settles instead right by Shoma’s hips.

Shoma keeps his face buried in the pillow. He might just suffocate, he thinks, if he stays there long enough. Or else Yuzuru might think he is asleep, and go to bed himself, and leave Shoma to sulk in his misery in peace. That’s what Shoma would do, if the situation were reversed; retreat, and pretend nothing happened at all.

But Yuzuru, it seems, never does things by the book.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he settles a palm low in the dip of Shoma’s back. The gentle weight of it feels soothing. Shoma holds himself still, draws a breath deep through his nose, fights to reign his body in. The embarrassment should have been enough to put an end to this, but something within him is clearly too willful, too stubborn to give in.

Without warning, Yuzuru’s hand presses down, and Shoma’s back arcs, belly curving into the mattress, pinning his length against it.

“Don’t, Yuzu—” Shoma gasps, strangled, lifting his head and turning to—to glare, maybe, or else beg, but then his eyes meet Yuzuru’s, and the breath punches out of his lungs.

Yuzuru’s gaze is dark, black and shining in the low light. There is colour in his cheeks, more red than pink, now, and a shine to his lips where his tongue flicks out to lick them. He looks...dazed, but pleasantly so, watching Shoma’s face intently, almost hungrily in his intensity.

He looks _good_.

Yuzuru presses again, purposeful, and Shoma’s eyes squeeze closed. The pressure feels impossibly good, bubbling through him. He curls his toes, and reflexively draws a knee up to one side, steadying himself against the bed.

“Yuzu—”

“It’s fine,” Yuzuru says. “You won’t be able to sleep like that anyway, right? Is it—does it feel good?”

Shoma hangs his head, and rocks himself into the mattress. Somehow, he is back to square one, sleepy and a little lost, rutting helplessly against the sheets, but this time Yuzuru is very much awake, and so very aware. Yuzuru’s palm smooths a little way up his spine, raising goosebumps as he goes, and then back down again, drawing the blanket away with him, into the dip at his lower back and further still, fingers grazing the rising curve of his ass. Shoma gasps, and gives an involuntary, jerky thrust.

“Yeah,” he chokes out belatedly. He should stop this—Yuzuru has seen enough, for one night, and Shoma should quit before he embarrasses himself any further. But Yuzuru is right there, at Shoma’s side, _touching_ him, even—and he isn’t stopping him. The fingers at Shoma’s back press again, encouraging.

Yuzuru shifts on the bed. He rearranges himself, lays down on his side, stretches his legs out over the mattress and props himself on an elbow. Shoma blinks dazedly over at him, eyes half-lidded, heavy with sleep and heady arousal. Yuzuru considers him, for a moment, head cocked to one side, and then he leans forward, comes close into Shoma’s personal space.

Yuzuru kisses him.

For a moment, Shoma doesn’t move.Yuzuru’s mouth is soft, pliant, lips warm and wet and impossibly smooth against his own. Tomorrow, he thinks, he might be conscious of how dry his own lips are, how cracked, but right now he can’t bring himself to think on it, not when Yuzuru’s mouth is pressed so snugly to his own.

This isn’t his first kiss. Shoma has kissed many people, in many different ways, but there is something…unique, about kissing Yuzuru. A kind of warmth to it that Shoma has never felt before; comfortable, with just an edge of something more. A little hint of wanting.

Yuzuru pulls away slowly. Shoma feels himself chasing, a little, craning his neck to keep the contact until the last possible moment. Yuzuru lets out a shuddering breath, face still close enough that Shoma can feel the soft gust of air across his own skin.

“Is that—okay?” Yuzuru asks. He sounds just short of breathless, murmuring and unsure. Shoma nods, and a smile spreads over Yuzuru’s lips. “I’ve been wanting to do that for _forever_.”

That—it wakes Shoma up a little. He stares owlishly, eyeing Yuzuru’s easy smile, his half-lidded gaze, the pink glow of his cheeks. He looks radiant. He looks _happy_.

“You—me?” Shoma says— _squeaks_ , high and choked. He must have misheard, surely: enchanted as he was, tired as he is, he simply scrambled Yuzuru’s words, made them into something they weren’t.

Yuzuru laughs, wrinkles his nose teasingly, and flicks Shoma between the eyes.

“Yes,” he says. “Me—you.” He smooths his thumb over the abused skin, then dips forward, and presses his lips gently between Shoma’s brows.

Shoma can only blink. Briefly, he considers pinching himself, in case this is all some cruel dream. He must look about as surprised as he feels, because Yuzuru chuckles softly, and says, “don’t look so _shocked_. Is it really so hard to believe?”

“I never thought you’d...look at me, like that,” Shoma says dazedly. He shrugs to hide the sting, like it means nothing to him, that Yuzuru would never see him the same way he has been looking at Yuzuru. It sounds pitiful, to say it out loud. Yuzuru looks at him, a little exasperated. Shoma wonders if Yuzuru might flick him again.

Then he rolls his eyes, and he smiles.

“Well, surprise!” Yuzuru teases quietly, almost _fondly_ , leaning in again, just a little. But then he stops, and his eyes flit over Shoma’s face, searching. “You’re definitely okay, right? With—this. Me, wanting—kissing you?”

“I’m...definitely okay,” he breathes.

“Then, I can do it again?”

Mutely, Shoma nods, and his eyes flutter closed as Yuzuru draws closer, welcoming the kiss with his lips slack, open. There is something _thrilling_ about the feel of Yuzuru’s tongue pressing into his mouth, gently at first, and then firmer, more insistent. It heats Shoma from the inside out, melts him until he is boneless, wholly pliable beneath Yuzuru’s touch.

Yuzuru nudges him, pokes at his side until Shoma squirms, and rolls, facing Yuzuru bodily. Yuzuru splays a hand over his waist and squeezes, encouraging. He draws the kiss to a close, softening each touch until they are pecks, barely there, and then he pulls away, and sighs a long breath.

“Do you want—” Yuzuru starts, fingers stroking lightly at Shoma’s waist. He knocks his forehead against Shoma’s, and Shoma feels the warmth of his breath, quick and a little uneven against his lips. “I can—do it. Do something.”

 _Oh_.

It’s hard to think, with Yuzuru’s fingers drawing soft patterns on the sensitive skin above his hip, and harder still to speak. He feels hazy, tired, and lost in the lull of Yuzuru’s gentle strokes, and it’s a concentrated effort to find the words in his head, more still to work his tongue around them.

“You don’t have to.” He sounds thick, syrupy to his own ears. Yuzuru laughs quietly, leans the little distance between them and kisses him, soft, slow. Shoma’s eyes drift closed, and he opens his lips, shudders when Yuzuru licks into his mouth again.

Yuzuru slides his palm from Shoma’s waist to cup over his hip, and there, he pushes, a gentle pressure until Shoma follows the press, rolling to lie flat on his back. Yuzuru follows him over, leaning on an elbow to continue the kiss—despite the needy energy thrumming through him, Shoma finds himself content to keep their kisses gentle. He doesn’t want fast or frantic, just—more.

More kisses. More contact.

“Is this okay?” Yuzuru says, breathy against Shoma’s mouth. He nods, reaches a hand to the back of Yuzuru’s head, carding his fingers up into the short hair at the nape of his neck. The top is growing long, fringe hanging to tickle at Shoma’s forehead, but the back is cropped, cut neat. Shoma scrapes his fingers over it, and Yuzuru shudders against his side. His body rolls, hips pressing against the side of Shoma’s thigh, and—oh.

Oh. Yuzuru is hard, too. Shoma curls his hand into a fist, nails scraping at Yuzuru’s scalp, and Yuzuru hisses, body undulating again.

“Things are gonna be over very quickly, if you keep doing that.”

Maybe it’s supposed to be a joke, Shoma doesn’t know, but it sounds an awful lot like a warning—gravelly, coming from somewhere low in Yuzuru’s throat. The sound sends a ripple of arousal through him, and Shoma gives a strained groan.

Yuzuru drags his mouth from Shoma’s, down to his neck, where he kisses him wetly, and blows a trail of air over the skin. Shoma’s whole body shudders.

“I like this,” Yuzuru says. He takes his hand from Shoma’s hip and brings it to his throat instead, fingertips grazing over the skin. Shoma blinks rapidly.

“Like—what?”

“This,” Yuzuru says, drawing a line from Shoma’s jaw to his neck. “The way you blush. It’s...it looks good.”

Shoma hums absently. Yuzuru’s fingertips follow the ruddy flush to Shoma’s chest, where it disperses, but they don’t seek it out lower. Shoma’s thighs remain hidden under the blankets, and he has the pressing urge to push them off, show Yuzuru where the blood flow goes next.

Yuzuru’s mouth latches back to his neck, loosely, peppering softer kisses to the flesh. Shoma cranes his neck to the side, creates a space for him there. The hand at his chest travels lower, over his ribs, his stomach, to his hips, and there, he stops.

Shoma’s length rests against his belly. If he were less tired, less hypnotised by Yuzuru’s gentle touches, Shoma might have been more conscious of it, but as it is, he is only conscious of Yuzuru’s touch, passing so _close_ , without making contact.

Yuzuru’s fingers trail low on his belly, barely a tickle. Shoma shifts almost imperceptibly, lifts his hips, seeking Yuzuru’s touch; harder, and lower, where he needs it most. Yuzuru’s mouths wetly at his neck, lips impossibly soft, touch impossibly light. Shoma feels hazy with it. Everything is so fleeting, so barely-there, he could be dreaming.

“Yuzu,” he breathes. It’s only a whisper, but in the silence of the room, the name is shatteringly loud. Yuzuru hums into his neck, draws his lips up, over the ruddy flush at his jaw, to his cheek, where he presses harder, a solid thing. Shoma turns his face into it, and feels Yuzuru’s lips stretch into a smile against him.

“We can wait, if you’re really too tired,” Yuzuru says. The fingers on Shoma’s belly trail back and forth, up to his waist and down again, over the lines of his hips, through the thin hair below his navel. Shoma’s muscles twitch with every brush, and his back bows, breath trembling out of his chest. He shakes his head, and digs his nails into the pillow, fighting the urge to reach down, move Yuzuru’s touch to where he he wants it, where he needs it.

“‘M fine,” he murmurs, breath hitching when Yuzuru’s nails scrape loosely over his stomach. He sucks a stunted gasp. “I’m awake.”

Yuzuru shifts, until the tip of his nose is tickling Shoma’s cheek, and breathes a low chuckle, his hand stilling with a palm pressed against the low curve of Shoma’s belly. The touch is firm, grounding. Shoma takes a steadying breath and blinks rapidly, trying to wake himself up.

“If you’re sure,” Yuzuru says. Shoma nods groggily, opening his mouth to speak, to tell him _yes_ , _please yes_ , but before he can make a sound, Yuzuru is moving, lifting the press of his palm to slide the tips of his fingers up the underside of Shoma’s cock instead. The feeling comes so suddenly, Shoma jerks, and a strangled little cry eeks out of him. He slaps the back of his hand to his mouth and bites at his knuckle, tensing bodily to keep himself from shaking.

Yuzuru stills, and cocks his head. Shoma whines.

“Don’t—” he starts, chokes, “ _please_.”

He rolls his hips up, into Yuzuru’s touch. Yuzuru obliges him, wrapping his fingers around Shoma’s shaft and thumbing over his head, swiping up the pearl of fluid beading at the tip. Shoma watches through hooded eyes, as Yuzuru smears the pre-come down his length, just enough to provide a little slick, a glide where Yuzuru’s fist pumps over him.

Shoma’s stomach clenches brutally. It’s a lot, after so much of nothing, to feel Yuzuru really grip him, stroke him the way he wants it. Shoma tips his head back into the pillow, one hand still gripping it tight, the other searching for purchase, and finding it around Yuzuru’s wrist, grabbing clumsily at him.

“Good?” Yuzuru asks. He sounds a little breathless, but far more put together than Shoma feels. Shoma nods, head heavy. It would be so, so easy, to move, thrust up into Yuzuru’s grip and finish himself off—the night has been impossibly long, a constant peak and trough of arousal, and Shoma is _tired_.

But Shoma can remember all too well, the feeling of Yuzuru’s hardness pressed against his hip. He can hear him now, voice tight, breath a little laboured, and he can see the way Yuzuru’s fingers shake, the way his body moves, an almost imperceptible roll from shoulder to hip, pressing insistently at Shoma’s side.

It would be selfish, to think only of himself.

Shoma reaches out to touch, catches Yuzuru’s hip. Somewhere in his manoeuvring, Yuzuru’s shirt has ridden up, exposing a strip of skin above the waistband of his pajamas, and Shoma strokes clumsy fingers over it, twitching when Yuzuru’s grip around him tightens.

Shoma rolls his head to the side, and finds Yuzuru’s eyes cast down, to where Shoma’s fingers brush against him. “You too?”

Yuzuru stills entirely. Shoma blinks, and Yuzuru’s eyes come up to meet him, owlish. His mouth drops open, as though he were going to say something, and then it snaps shut, and his lips press into a thin line. Shoma can see the cogs turning: an idea developing, or else already developed, and Yuzuru is now looking for the best way to articulate it.

“I—do you—we could—”

He flounders a little longer, grasping at straws to find the words he needs, but they don’t come. He gapes some more, then creases his brow, then releases Shoma with a quick, harsh peck on the lips, rolling from the bed. Shoma watches him with a frown; Yuzuru seems antsy, crossing the room quickly, and pulling open the drawer beside his bed. He ratches around, tongue peaking out between his teeth.

“I have—these,” Yuzuru says. He holds out a palm to show his find, and Shoma’s eyes widen.

Lube. And a condom.

“Just—we don’t have to,” Yuzuru goes on, “if you’re tired, or you don’t want to, or whatever, but I thought, maybe—I haven’t...in a while, so—” his breath catches in his throat, and he falls silent, air held high in his chest, watching Shoma. Waiting.

Shoma squirms.

Slowly, he says, “I won’t...last long.”

Yuzuru shrugs at him, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter, just—do you want to?”

Shoma opens his mouth, closes it again.

“It’s really fine if you don’t,” Yuzuru says, hard and earnest. “I won’t be mad or anything.”

“No,” Shoma says, “I—want to. But.”

It seems stupid to be embarrassed _now_ , after everything, but it feels acutely difficult, to communicate the details of his sexual experience to Yuzuru. There is no _good_ way of telling Yuzuru his history, what he’s been putting where.

“But...?” Yuzuru coaxes softly.

“I don’t...know how you…”

Yuzuru’s eyes go wide.

“Shoma,” he says, a little tremor in his tone, “have you never—”

“No!” Shoma jolts, then shakes his head. He needs to be more _lucid_ , for this conversation; less tired, less hazy. “I mean— _yes_ , I have. It’s not—my first time, or anything.” His cheeks feel steaming hot. Yuzuru sags, visibly relieved.

“Okay,” he says, nodding. Shoma watches him try to find his bearings, for a moment.

“I don’t have much experience,” he says, waves a hand at the lube, and then vaguely towards himself, “with...that.”

For a minute, Yuzuru looks confused, head cocked and brow furrowed, and then his gaze passes to the lube in his hand, and the condom, and back to Shoma, and his eyes widen again, with a calmer kind of clarity.

“This is…I can do this part.”

Shoma only nods. The inside of his mouth feels suddenly very _dry_. Yuzuru is going to...okay. Okay.

“Okay.”

* * *

Watching Yuzuru touch himself is equal parts fascinating and torturous. He looks like he was _made_ for it, to be displayed like this, knees spread over the sheets, fingers curled inside of himself. The lines of his body aren’t new; Yuzuru knows well how to accentuate them on the ice, incorporates thought into his clothing, his carriage, his choreography, all carefully considered to best display _this_.

Shoma thought he looked good before, but none of Yuzuru’s meticulous planning has brought him close to looking as good as he does now. Body lean, long, taut; thighs clenched; neck stretched, arched back in a curve that shows leagues of porcelain smooth skin. Shoma wants desperately to touch, but he worries he might mar the image, if he does.

Yuzuru sighs out a little moan, body twitching pleasantly. He is flushed, bright pink from cheek to cheek and over the bridge of his nose, and his lips are wet, bitten red, eyes a dark, glistening black.

From this angle, Shoma can’t see exactly what Yuzuru is doing, but he can see the muscles flex in his arm as he moves, pumping his fingers inside himself. Slicking up, stretching out. Shoma lifts a knee, braces his foot on the mattress. He feels an odd mix of boneless and restless; exhausted but energised. He is eager to reach out and touch, but feels too heavy to do so.

So instead, he watches on, one hand clinging to the blankets, and the other resting on his thigh, drawing mindless patterns over the skin. There are so many things he wants to _say_ , right now—to tell Yuzuru how good he looks, how badly Shoma wants to touch him, to _have_ him—but instead he keeps quiet, bites his lip, and listens to all the little sounds Yuzuru makes, high and keening in the back of his throat.

He is panting by the time he stops, flopping forward and planting his hands on the bed. Shoma reaches out lamely, drops his hand to the bed sheets.

“How do you want to…” Shoma gestures, breathless and helpless. He moves to sit up, but Yuzuru shakes his head, and crawls shakily up the bed. Shoma half expects him to clamber over his lap, but instead, Yuzuru moves alongside him, and lays down on his side, back to Shoma.

“Here,” Yuzuru says, reaching back and curling a hand over Shoma’s thigh. The touch makes him jump. “Behind me?”

Shoma moves as instructed sluggishly, tucking himself up close against Yuzuru’s back. Heat radiates from him, and pressed this close, Shoma can feel him shaking.

Yuzuru finds Shoma’s wrist, and draws his hand up, settles it at his own hip, and Shoma grips him there, nails biting a little into the skin. Yuzuru nods his head, encouraging, and lifts his leg, stretching it back to rest over Shoma’s, and _ah_. Oh.

“Condom,” Shoma says, thick and clumsy. Yuzuru groans—frustrated. Shoma sits up, reaches around blindly for the little foil square. He rolls it on clumsily, fingers trembling, and all the while, Yuzuru’s eyes are on him, waiting.

Being pressed so close behind Yuzuru is overwhelming. It’s even moreso, when Yuzuru lifts his leg again, lays it back over Shoma’s thigh, creating space between his legs for Shoma to occupy. There is a novelty in being so wrapped up in another person that Shoma has never quite become accustomed to, and it feels even more surreal now, after everything, when the other person is Yuzuru.

“You can—I’m ready, when you are,” Yuzuru says. He sounds tense, but it’s an excitable kind of tension; anticipating.

Between Yuzuru’s thighs is slick, and warm. Shoma glides his hips forward slowly, eyelids fluttering. It feels impossibly good already, sliding his length between Yuzuru’s legs, between his cheeks. Shoma thinks he could get off just like this, if Yuzuru would let him—but it wouldn’t be fair, to put Yuzuru’s hard work to waste.

Yuzuru breathes out a raspy laugh. “Feels good,” he says, “but it’d feel better if you were—aiming elsewhere.”

“Then point me in the right direction.”

Shoma pinches at Yuzuru’s hip, gentle at first, and then bruising, when Yuzuru shifts his hips forward, until the head of Shoma’s cock finds his hole, and Yuzuru’s fingers press against the underside of his length, holding him in place as he sinks—so, painfully slowly—back onto it.

Shoma feels a little like he’s underwater. Everything around him is woolly, and distant, except for the feel of Yuzuru enveloping him, taking him in, slick and tight and warm. He gasps, fighting to keep himself still but it’s _hard_ , when everything in him screams that he move, push deeper, take Yuzuru faster.

Take _Yuzuru_. Fill him. Feel him wrapped around every last inch of Shoma’s shaft. He almost laughs at the thought, but the sound punches out of him on a wheezy breath, when Yuzuru’s ass settles back fully against him.

Shoma presses his forehead to the back of Yuzuru’s neck. He is sweating, hair curling against his brow and sticking to Yuzuru’s skin, and the air between them is sticky, stifling. He curls an arm across Yuzuru’s chest, reaches up to grip at his collar, his shoulder, his neck, to find purchase somewhere, for fear that if he doesn’t, he may slip into sleep, or else out of it, because this—it feels awfully like he might be dreaming.

The room falls into quiet. Yuzuru’s laboured breathing calms, the frantic beat of his heart beneath Shoma’s palm slowing. It’s almost easy, to forget all that has happened in just one night, all that is _happening_ —almost, except Shoma can feel the warmth around him, the pressure, every twitch of Yuzuru’s muscles clamping against him. He can feel the swell of Yuzuru’s ass, pressed low on his belly, and the shift of his back with every breath he takes.

He can smell him, heady and warm, and—if he moves, tilts his head, lifts his jaw—he can taste him, the salt of Yuzuru’s sweat-damp skin against his lips. Yuzuru shudders, and cants his hips back. Shoma hisses; sleep tugs at him, pulling him in, but with every tiny shift of Yuzuru’s hips, Shoma strays a little closer to wakefulness, jarred away from rest.

“Okay?” Yuzuru asks again. His voice sounds higher, breathier than before, on the edge of something desperate. Shoma nods against him, tightens his grip until Yuzu’s back pulls flush against him. Yuzuru groans, soft, and quiet.

“You?” Shoma asks. Yuzuru gives a breathy laugh. It tenses the muscles inside of him, sends them fluttering around Shoma’s length. He groans, hips rocking unconsciously forward, and Yuzuru arcs his back, thighs shuddering. A strangled moan squeaks out of him and he reaches back a hand, grabbing at Shoma’s hip to still him.

“Let—let me move?”

Shoma digs his forehead hard into the back of Yuzuru’s neck, and nods. It’s easier, if Yuzuru sets the pace; Shoma is tucked so deeply into his exhaustion, he wonders if he could fall asleep at any moment, might forget why he’s here, what they’re doing.

Yuzuru doesn’t let him. He moves languidly, but his pace is practiced and certain, and though Shoma’s mind remains somewhere on the brink of sleep, his body responds in kind, the muscles about his hips clenching, driving him forward in unconscious little thrusts. Yuzuru’s fingers find Shoma’s against his chest, and he knots them together, presses them both into the mattress before him.

Shoma almost wishes they could turn around, so that he could see Yuzuru’s face. He can only imagine how he must look; eyes half-lidded, maybe, or else squeezed closed, hair damp and clinging to his brow, mouth open against the pillow—or maybe he’s biting his lip, stifling the sounds bubbling in his throat with every shift. Shoma can hear them, barely, muffled by the heavy sound of their breathing, raspy in the quiet.

True to his word, Shoma doesn’t last long—but it isn’t the quick, tumultuous high and subsequent crash that Shoma is used to. It is quiet, more subdued, cresting like a wave and lingering, trickling away slowly. He bites at Yuzuru’s shoulder to muffle the grunt as it comes, and keeps his lips pressed there as Yuzuru rides him through it. He peppers kisses to the skin as Yuzuru comes, too, clenching painfully tight around him and crying it out, short and sharp. He strokes his thumb absently at Yuzuru’s hip as they lie there, catching their breath, and at some point in the calm and the come-down, he finds another edge—sleep, looming steeply before him. And with nothing to hold him back anymore, he falls.

* * *

When he wakes, it’s still dark outside.

Shoma blinks groggily. It takes a while, to figure out what it was that woke him, until the shower shuts off in the bathroom and the room plunges into quiet.

Shoma feels like he’s slept for a lifetime, and that he could sleep a lifetime more. His limbs feel pleasantly heavy, and his mind airy, weightless. The stress of the last few days—packing, travelling, the undercurrent of panic about sharing a temporary living space with Yuzuru—has finally lifted, and Shoma is left feeling something close to tranquil. Satiated.

Yuzuru comes out of the bathroom for the second time tonight, towelling his hair dry. Shoma lets himself watch, this time; Yuzuru isn’t naked, instead clad in a fresh pair of sweats, but he is shirtless, and Shoma allows himself a moment to look. It feels...okay, given everything.

And Yuzuru mustn’t mind, because when his eyes find Shoma’s, he stills, and smiles, with a fondness that makes Shoma’s chest clench painfully tight.

“I thought you’d be sleeping,” Yuzuru whispers. Shoma shrugs, nuzzles his cheek into the pillow.

“Shower must’ve woke me,” he says.

Yuzuru grimaces. “Sorry.”

“‘S fine,” Shoma says, shaking his head. Yuzuru gives his hair one last scrub with the towel, then hangs it on the wrack, and instead of heading to his own bed, he crosses to Shoma’s. He kneels beside him, and reaches up a hand, fingers tucking the stray hairs back out of Shoma’s eyes. He looks so _soft_ , this close. Shoma wants to kiss him again.

“Sorry,” he says instead, shuffling a little closer to the end of the bed. “For falling asleep.”

Yuzuru smiles, and it is blindingly beautiful. He scrunches his nose around it, shaking his head.

“I’d’ve been more surprised if you hadn’t,” he says. He tucks more hair behind Shoma’s ear, and strokes a thumb high on his cheek. The touch is soft, soothing. Shoma leans into it, letting his eyes fall closed again. Between his exhaustion, and the warmth of the room, and Yuzuru’s gentle touches, Shoma can feel himself floating.

“Just...tired,” he sighs. Yuzuru chuckles quietly.

“Go to sleep, then.”

Shoma nods. He wants to stay like this for longer; wants to keep Yuzuru’s hand by his face, the soft scratch of fingers at his scalp and the stroke of Yuzuru’s thumb over his skin, but he is already tumbling. Yuzuru stands, stretching to his full height.

There is one more thing Shoma wants, before he lets himself rest.

“Yuzu.”

Yuzuru looks down at him. Shoma reaches up, disentangles Yuzuru’s fingers from his hair and twines them with his own, instead, and tugs gently, until Yuzuru bends, leaning in close.

Shoma turns his head, and catches him in a kiss.

It’s short, and sweet, and Yuzuru returns it in kind, sighing a breath against Shoma’s mouth.

When they pull apart, it is only barely. Yuzuru remains in his personal space, so close Shoma can feel the tickle of damp hair, the tip of Yuzuru’s nose brushing against him. He smiles sleepily, and Yuzuru smiles in return, pressing one last, soft kiss to his lips.

“Goodnight, Shoma,” he says. Shoma closes his eyes, and turns his nose deep into his pillow.

“Goodnight.”

Tomorrow, they will have to talk. Tomorrow, they can air things out, discuss the details, find the boundaries. Maybe tomorrow, Shoma will be brave, and ask Yuzuru why he was so... _prepared_ , and maybe he will be brave enough to answer Yuzuru’s questions in return, but heavy conversation can wait until morning.

For now, Shoma burrows down into his bedding, watching lazily as Yuzuru tucks himself into his own sheets.

For now, they sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> WELL I am going to go back into my hole for a while, but hopefully I will be back again with more content at some point in life maybe who knows


End file.
